Blank canvas,
the off-white of days.
Subtle progress
in escaping the daze.
Still not the alabaster of purity
deserving of praise,
but the milky air of obscurity
and uncertainty, always.
A new interpretation
of an old painting;
an undiscovered implication
in ancient writing.
Not brand new
nor reborn,
This canvas has been used,
worn and torn.
Filled with emptiness
and lack of substance,
loud with silence
and rich in the absence
of fulfillment.
In my solitude,
I am extraordinarily
insignificant.
